


One Of Those Nights

by angelheadedhipster, nitpickyabouttrains



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drabble, Dreams, Fire, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, SO, Short, Slashy, Tea, Workplace Romance, but they work at MI6, ear pieces, groupwrite, missed calls, q you are the cutest, that's delightful, vital signs, we are writing this verrrrry slowwwwwly, we're bascially writing jim and pam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond awoke from a dream of fire and blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The heat was the first thing he noticed. Scorching waves of hot air, hitting him over and over, like being hit against an anvil by a mallet fresh from the fire. Fire. The word seemed to give the hotness a form, the flames jumping up and dancing all around him._

_Bond had no idea where he was. A building, an empty warehouse maybe, which did not hold anything at all. Well, at least nothing of substance. There were shelves all around him, empty shelves, towering all the way up to the ceiling, swaying and shaking in the fires which raged throughout the entirety of the landscape. They were compromised, Bond thought, they might fall._

_Help,” came a cry from someplace far away_

_Bond took off in a run, dodging around the flames, which licked up at his heels, ever moving, ever chasing._

_Save me,” came the voice again, but this time Bond knew who it was. Q. He ran faster._

_Suddenly a rope of fire fell from the left, hitting Bond squarely on the chest. Bond reached down and touched the gash it had created. His hand came back sticky and warm, covered in blood._

_Bond could feel his heart racing, trying to get him to pick up speed. Q was there, amid the fire and danger. Q needed help. But Bond could not find him. Around and around he ran, in and out of rows, but the warehouse was a maze. No matter where he went, the voice always seemed to be far away. He was getting no closer._

_Yet he went on, needing to get to Q._

 

Bond awoke from a dream of fire and blood.

He sat up gasping in his dark apartment, sweat trickling down his forehead. Another nightmare. Waiting for his brain to wake up, his heart to stop racing, he did a quick scan of his surroundings, like he'd been taught, finding order and calmness in the ritual. He was in his own apartment, the window shades were open (they always are) he was alone in his bed it was dark out he was uninjured he was asleep it was night there was nowhere he needed to be. No one he needed to rescue.

He tried to parse the dream, flashes of it appearing behind his eyes, a jumble of colors and sensations. This one was a nightmare, new and invented out of his own subconscious  not a memory, not a flash of something he had seen. Or done. The people he killed who talked to him at night, those were the worst ones. No, this was new. There had been a fire, something hitting him, something he was looking for, and someone who was hurt...who was it? Q? The quartermaster, the little guy with the floppy hair and the ever-present mug of tea? That couldn't be right. Why was he dreaming about Q?

Bond stretched and gazed at the ceiling for a whole thirty seconds, feeling the sweat on his shoulders cool in the night air and his breathing return to its usual steadiness, before he gave up and got out of bed. Three thirty in the morning. That was pretty good, actually, for a night when he'd tried to sleep with just himself, without a drink or a body or one of his other releases, the things he used to put himself to bed when he didn't have the satisfaction of a completed mission and the 'off' switch it turned. Now these nights came with nightmares, too, apparently, in addition to the sleeplessness. Bond was getting old, and he was tired of it.

+++

M sent him down to Q branch the next day, saying something about another vision and targeting test. Bond tried not to think about what failing this one would mean - nothing good, he was sure of that. But he was also sure that he could pass it, and that he needed to pass it because he couldn't stand another week of indoor work and offices and cubicles and paperwork. He felt like the tall buildings of London were closing in around him, trapping him, the air a dull grey fog on his brain that made him feel sleepy and useless.

When he got back to the main lab after his test, Q was there, at his desk. The younger man was looking at him, his head tilted to the side in an oddly fetching way, his eyes unreadable.

"All right, Double O?" he asked as Bond came up to his desk.

"Yes?" said Bond. Q was looking at him as if expecting something, but Bond had no idea what. He had such blue eyes, behind those thick framed glasses.

"Did you figure out your problem last night, or whatever it was?" Q asked.

"Problem?" said Bond. Now he was really befuddled. Was Q coming on to him? If so, he was going about it terribly.

"You called me," said Q, slowly, as if he was explaining something incredibly obvious. "Last night. At some ungodly hour, I didn't see it until this morning. I assumed you had some sort of technological issue you needed my help with."

Bond was staring at him now. "I didn't call you," he said, flatly.

"You did, Bond," Q said, just as slowly, staring straight at him, his ever-present mug of tea now lowered to the desk in front of him. "Here," he said finally, sounding exasperated, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, his fingers running over the screen before he even fully had it in his hand. "See?"

Bond looked down. Missed call:  _007, 3:27 am, 00 minutes 04 seconds._  Bond felt a pang of something, he didn't know what, that he was in Q's phone by his code numbers. He looked at the screen and suddenly saw a flash behind his eyes, heat and flame and light, running in the dark, searching, a feeling of utter terror and pain. He shook his head to clear it. He must have had a bad dream. Again. And called Q?

"I suppose I did," said Bond, looking up and at Q now, his eyes floating onto those red, red lips, now quirked in an expectant smirk. "It was an accident, I apologize for inconveniencing you."

The smirk left Q's face, replaced by confusion and...disappointment? "Not a problem, Double O," said Q, pocketing his phone again. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a little antsy and this happened. If you like it let us know. We could write more...


	2. Chapter 2

_He is sitting at his desk, in front of his computer, just like always. It feels safe, Q is always most at home with a screen and a keyboard in front of him. He is typing quickly, solving a problem without much thought._

_All around Q, the room is white. This too is normal, his office is always white. But this is different. The room is less of a room and more of a lineless space, without walls or floor or dimensions. Along with no walls, of course, there are no doors, no way in or out, no escape. Only the absence of color, surrounding Q and overtaking his senses._

_His hands are moving faster, without his noticing. They move of their own volition, he is not doing it on purpose. If he had control he might stop, might think, might give it a rest. But he does not, his fingers are quick and require nothing from him. The sound of the typing keys, the buttons pressing over and over, is growing louder. It echoes through the white space, intensifying, until Q cannot think or reason. He can only hear the clatter of keys, ringing in his head._

_Click. Click. Click._

_It reverberates around his skull, bouncing off the edges of his brain. He does not even know what he is writing, only that it must be him because he is alone and he can feel his hands moving._

_Q looks down at his fingers, to try and ascertain what is going on, but there is something wrong with the keyboard. The letters are not letters he knows. Not in English or any other language he recognizes. They are just symbols. Gibberish._

_When he looks up at the screen it is the same, filled with lines and lines of meaninglessness. And the code is growing, because his hands are still moving across the board._

_A sense of dread fills Q as the shapes on the screen continue to line up. Because even though he has no idea what they stand for, what they mean, he knows it is not good. The screen seems to be growing, getting bigger, more foreboding. What was once the size of a normal desktop is now taking up the space of three grown men. He wants to stop. He tries to stop. But his fingers are not listening to him. Q is the best there is, he knows that, he is confident. And yet this is beyond his abilities._

_Suddenly, the symbols stop. Q can feel his hands still, finally resting. The letters flash bright red, a blinding shade, and then blink out of existence. Q can feel his heart speeding up. Whatever he was doing must be done. With a hum, the screen turns blue and blank._

_In the empty monitor, Q can see a reflection. At first he thinks its himself, looking horrified. But it is not._

_Staring out at him is 007. But there is something wrong with Bond. Piercing blue eyes are giving him a hard look through a trickle of blood falling from a cut on his forehead. His white-blond hair is cropped short and yet still looking something of a mess, sticking out in every which direction. There is a gash on his nose, open and raw and red. Dirt streaks his face._

_Q knows, deep in his gut, that this is his fault. He has failed in his task and an agent is hurt._

_He watches as the flow of scarlet from 007’s open wound increases. There is blood flowing all down his face, covering it now. It drips onto his collar and his chest. Q can feel something on his hands, warm and wet. When he looks down he sees that the blood is coming out of the screen now, through the keys, covering his digits._

_He lifts his arms so that his fingers are in front of his face, covered in red._

With a gasp, Q woke from a dream of blood and blankness.

His whole body tensed and and he threw himself forward til he was sitting up in bed, staring at his hands, before he even realized he was fully awake. He blinked and tried to relax his shoulders, breathing deeply and focusing on the stillness around him, the feeling of the muscles in his back as they loosened, the sweat cooling on his collarbones. He turned the bedside lamp on and leaned back against the headboard, looking at his hands.

Long fingers, pale palms, the veins almost blue under the skin in the dim light. No blood on them, of course. Not now. At least, none that anyone could see.

Q leaned back, sighing. A weird dream...he could still see it, the screen going black, 007 staring at him, bloody and in pieces. It had felt so real. And, at least at first, so comfortable. So normal. Typing at a screen, solving a problem, this is what he did. What he was good at. What they paid him for.

No, he thought. That wasn't what they paid him for, being good at computers. How many times had they drilled it into him in training, how many times had he said it to his own underlings? _Your job is to bring your agents back alive_. All his skills, every clever piece of weaponry he invented, every system he hacked, all for that. One goal. One job.

And the people who weren't his agents? Well. They didn't come back alive as often, and it was his job not to care.

Q closed his eyes and slumped down again. He could still see the blood behind his eyelids, Bond staring at him from the screen, eyes hard and accusing. Bond. His thoughts drifted now, remembering their conversation today, wondering why Bond had called him in the middle of the night. Probably for nothing. An accident, like he said. Nothing more than that. And now Q was dreaming about him.

He squinted at the clock on the table next to him, but the numbers were blurry without his glasses. It was dark out, though, and he should really go back to sleep for a few more hours. He felt keyed up and restless, his muscles twitching and his heart racing.

Q switched the light off and lay in the darkness under the covers, trying to consciously relax himself, moving his awareness over his legs, his hips, his stomach, relaxing inch by inch. Or. Actually. Parts of him were not so relaxed. He had a quick mental conversation with himself - it would help him relax! and fall back asleep! - and gave in, moving his right hand to his dick, which was already slightly hard, and started stroking himself, letting his mind drift, fuzzed by sleep and adrenaline. Images ran through his head, people and faces and positions, until they settled on one stoic face, blond hair and hard lines, packed muscles under carefully tailored suits. Q thought about Bond’s hands, strong and solid, callused trigger fingers on his body, on his mouth and his ass and his dick, until, faster than he expected, he came, gasping, under the sheets.

He did feel sleepier. Q rolled over, and didn’t dream for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the project [nitpickyabouttrains](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains) and I work on when we're not working on other things or between other stories or whatever, so it will get updated in fits and starts, mostly. Sorry! Thank you so much for reading this far!
> 
> However there is of course a direct correlation between number of comments we get and how soon we might update it. *winks comment-baitingly


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Q was having trouble focusing. His mind was not clear, still fuzzy from lack of sleep during the fitful night. The offices hummed along as usual, no one else acting different, but Q saw reminders of his troubled nightmare everywhere he looked.

Every blank screen caused Q to flinch. It was not like he did not know truth from dreams, obviously none of them were going to be covered in script he did not know or reflect a phantom face. Still, he did it three times on his walk to his desk before he realized what was going on. One of his underlings was giving him a funny look, he must have noticed.

What Q needed was a nice mug of Earl Grey to calm his nerves. He went to fix himself a cup, hoping the caffeine would be just the trick.

Hot tea in hand, Q ducked his head and looked down on his way back to his computer. This way he would not see anything that could remind him of the night before. He felt his heart slowing, calming, just at the smell of the brew he was holding. This was what he needed, to get back to normal.

It would have worked perfectly, if only he had not forgotten one thing. Other people.

“Ahhh,” he yelled out, without thinking, when he walked straight into something firm standing directly in his path.

His tea spilled everywhere, getting all over his hands and the hard body he had collided with. Scalding liquid poured everywhere, wet and burning. Even through the discomfort Q found himself looking down at his own hands, the feeling reminding him so much of something from the nightmare. Would there be scarlet everywhere? But there was no blood on him, just Earl Grey.

He raised his eyes and met the icy blue glare of Bond.

“007!” Q exclaimed, realizing what he had done, “Excuse me! Sorry…I didn’t mean to…and now you are all wet…I…”

“Its fine,” Bond cut him off, “It will dry.”

Q was not sure what to do. This Bond in front of him was so similar to the one he had seen in his dream the night before. The eyes were the same clear blue, the cheekbones just as sharp, the hair equally sandy. But this Bond was whole, not hurt, not bleeding. And this Bond was starting to give him a strange look. Q realized he must have been staring.

“Right, of course,” Q said quickly, “Then I will just…” he trailed off again, gesturing down the hall to his office.

Bond raised one perfect eyebrow. “Don’t you need a new cup of tea?”

Q looked down at his now empty mug and then back up at Bond. He could feel his face turning red, blush blooming on his cheeks. “No, I think it might be better if I gave up on hot beverages for the morning.”

Bond just shrugged, and the two men each went their own way. Q brushed off the encounter, getting back to work. He did not think about it again until a few hours later when he looked up from his screen to see a fresh Earl Grey in a paper cup by his elbow. Q smiled. Bond must have left it there for him while he was lost in his computer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look we thought maybe we weren't gonna write any more of this but then we did. That happens sometimes! Tell us if you like it

Bond spent much of his life with a voice in his ear. He was used to it, the sound of an outside observer, dispassionate and omniscient, telling him which way to turn, when to duck, what to expect from behind him. Sometimes he waited, half a second, when crossing the street or dodging through crowds, expecting a voice to tell him when to go, a voice that wasn't there. When it didn't come he felt adrift, unplugged, a hand not attached to a body, until he shook it off and walked on.

Today should have been no different. Q branch wanted to test out a new communicator, one that gave them the vital signs for their agents, in addition to audio and occasional visual, depending on the situation. It felt the same in Bond's ear, hard and cool, warming up as he ran, sweat making it slide against his skin. The voice sounded the same, tinny and far away, occasionally mechanical and staticy as the connection frayed. And yet something was off. Bond felt tense, itchy, unsettled. The sound of technicians in his ear, the endless "check, one-two, one-two" and bursts of crackle, was setting his teeth on edge.

The simulation they were running him through seemed especially boring, too. It just reminded Bond that he was still in London, still on office duty, still stuck in endless corridors and offices, still useless. He needed to get out, to _do_ something.

There was a particularly loud and abrasive burst of static in his ear, making him wince. Bond glared at the camera eye in the corner, knowing he was being petulant and that no one was _trying_ to annoy him, but not caring.

There was silence for a moment, and then a new voice on the ear piece.

"Hello, Bond."

"Q." This was new. Q was usually far too busy and important to come to routine equipment tests; Bond didn't think he had ever seen him down here. He wondered why the quartermaster had made the exception for this one, and found that he was quite happy he had.

"Your pulse is speeding up, Bond," said Q, in his ear. "All your vitals are quickening, actually."

"Are they really," said Bond, keeping his voice steady as he shot out the next target.

There was a pause on the line, and then a quick intake of breath. "Am I making you nervous, Double O?"

Bond felt his mouth quirk into a grin, swallowing it before the cameras caught him. Q sounded like he'd had to steel himself to say that, false confidence masking the hesitation. It was adorable, actually. Bond rounded the next corner, and didn't answer.

For a few moments there were only the sounds of Bond walking, running and shooting, and an occasional keystroke coming through the earpiece as Q adjusted something on his screen. The static had stopped, of course. Q was very good at what he did. Bond felt himself calming, settling, the irritation leaving his mind, allowing him to sink into what his body knew how to do: step, shoot, cover, look, step. With part of his mind he thought about Q, watching him.

"Can you try to miss something, Bond?" Q asked. "I want to see how it reacts when you make a mistake."

"I thought this was supposed to simulate actual field conditions," said Bond. "I never make mistakes."

"Very funny," said Q. Bond could practically hear his smile over the comm line, could almost see the little spark in those blue eyes.

On the next corridor Bond deliberately left his right side exposed, didn't check for coverage, and shot at the target wide, sending the bullet into the padded wall to the left. Three mistakes, though he didn't know that Q would catch all of them.

He winced at the hole in wall, and then felt a buzzing in his ear.

"What was that?" he asked. "Is this thing going to tell me when I fuck up, because I don't think I really need that."

"Your vitals spiked when you missed the shot," said Q. "The machine reacts to that."

"I know I missed the shot," said Bond. "I don't need some piece of electronics to tell me."

"I know, I know, Bond-"

"Besides, I didn't actually miss it," said Bond. He knew he was overreacting, but the buzz felt like a rebuke, like MI6 itself telling him he couldn't do his job, and he didn't like it at all. "I did what you told me to do."

"I know, Double O," said Q. He sounded like he was trying to be patient. "I know that. And I know you know that. The comm buzzes when it perceives that the subject is in danger, such as when it detects an abnormal spike in their heart rate or breathing. The idea was to warn agents of danger, to remind them of their circumstances, to try to get them to watch out."

"I don't like it," said Bond.

"I'll take that under advisement, Bond." The sound of a smile was creeping back into Q's voice now, and Bond felt calmer. Only two targets left in the course. "Maybe I won't have your equipment react like that."

"Thank you," said Bond. "I know when I"m in danger. And I never make mistakes."

Q laughed, the sound slightly distorted in Bond's ear. "Of course."

Bond shot out his last target and turned towards the tech standing at the front of the course, waiting to take back the equipment. As he was unhooking the wires around his ear, Bond heard Q's voice, softer now, the connection almost broken: "I am just trying to bring you back alive."


	5. Chapter 5

_I am just trying to bring you back alive._ The words ran through Bond’s head for the rest of the day. Whenever he let his mind wander, even just a little, it went right there. The one line, spoken so softly that he was not even sure if he had heard it correctly. It was going to drive Bond mad. So he did what he always did when there was something he did not want to think about, and lost himself in other activities.

So late that night, when he got home, after a full evening of girls, booze and other distractions, Bond was pleased with just how blank his mind now was. Blissful white noise, he thought, as he pulled off his shirt, and got ready for bed.

He glanced in the mirror in his bathroom and his eyes fell on the now-faded scar on his left shoulder, where faint silver lines glimmered, all that was left of where the bullet had entered his body. Without much thought his raised his arm, his hand going to the scar. His fingers trailed over it, each small turn and contour. It was a part of him. A reminder that he was mortal, that he could be hurt. As much as he protested, about never being scared and never being in danger, the truth was Bond knew he put his life on the line every time he went out into the field. The difference was he embraced that feeling, it made him stronger, better. Letting the fear hold you back, that was the mistake. _I am just trying to bring you back alive_ , he heard again, but this time the inflection was different. Before it had sounded frustrated and a little condescending. Now it was just full of worry. Bond sighed and chalked it up to being tired and drunk.

Before going to sleep he went through his normal routine, like he did every night. Alcohol was not enough to stop him from what was so deeply ingrained in his mind. First he checked the room, to see that everything was in place, to made sure his exits were clear.

He checked himself next, a mental list of his state. In turn, he tensed and released each muscle. Starting in his feet, then going up his legs, into his stomach and abdomen. His chest and arms and fingers, nothing hurt, nothing was out of place. He stretched his neck, turning the column of his throat in each direction, waiting for that satisfying feel of strain.

Then he fell into bed, closed his eyes, and hoped for a peaceful night’s sleep.

_“Be a good boy,” his mother says, tightening the plaid scarf around his neck, a nervous tick that came out whenever she was nervous. “And be careful.”_

_“I will be, Mum.” Ten-year-old James Bond agrees quickly, eager to get away from his mother and go play outside with the other children. It is a warm winter day, the snow is glistening outside, waiting to be trampled through. James knows there are adventures out there, things to discover and messes he could be in the middle of. He cannot wait._

_Inside, his mother is standing with him in the mud room, making sure he is properly bundled before going outside. “I love you,” she says, as he is ready to bolt for the door, taking hold of his chin and making him look at her. “Do you know what the means?”_

_Young-James rolls his eyes. “It means no running on the rocks,” he repeats what he has heard her say a million times before._

_“It means I am just trying to bring you back alive,” she says with a tired smile._

_No, that is wrong. That is not what his mother said to him on that sunny winter morning. Her lips did move, but not to form those words._

_James blinks at her and asks in a dazed voice, “What?”_

_“I am just trying to bring you back alive.” The words are the same but this time his mother’s mouth does not move at all. And the voice is no longer hers, even the accent is wrong. It is the deep tenor of a young man, British and serious._

_“Mum?” Young James asked, reaching out for her hands._

_Her mouth moves again this time, and her voice comes out sounding exasperated but normal. “I said, go have fun with your friends. What are you still doing, standing here?”_

_James nods and runs out the door, into the shining light of the day. The strange voice is still echoing in his head. Telling him to stay safe, to come home alive, because he is loved. And even though James does not know the voice, it feels familiar and he wants to listen to it. He does not want to disappoint it or make it worry even more. He will be careful._

In his sleep, Bond rolled over, his hand unconsciously going to his left shoulder, to the faint traces of his scar.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, more! We are as surprised as you.

Q was at his desk when Bond walked past, his sharp lines and expensive fabrics, looking, as usual, like God's gift to menswear.

Or, maybe not. It was subtle, and someone who hadn't spent as much time watching the agent as Q had probably wouldn't notice, but Bond wasn't quite in perfect condition today. Not like usual. The skin under his eyes was darker, almost bruised-looking. His gait was just slightly slower than usual. His eyes squinted when they came near bright lights, and he looked, ever so slightly, like he wanted to lie down.

James Bond had a hangover.

Q smiled to himself as Bond walked out of the lab, heading towards M's office. Talking to M with a hangover. That must be fun.

Probably not the first time Bond had done that though, Q mused, his mind detaching as his fingers moved over the keys, patterns so familiar he didn't have to think about them. And M wouldn't really mind. Rules were different for the 00s; mostly, there weren't any. Double Os were England's very own sociopaths, capable of astonishing things. Their lives were different than normal humans, because they were different. They had been made into what they needed to be. MI6 existed around them, supporting and molding them, making sure they could do what they had to do, when they had to do it. And when they had to fuck themselves up, get drunk - and whatever else- on a weeknight to deal with who they are, M could hardly complain.

Someone asked him something at that moment, and Q's brain reengaged, moving back to the task at hand, away from Bond and the world he lived in.

Or, he tried to move away. His mind kept stuttering, stopping and wondering about what Bond had been doing last night. Who Bond had been doing. What had Bond been doing, and to who.

Q knew the stories. The 00s were all like that - trained sociopaths, devastatingly beautiful and in perfect physical condition - and they took full advantage of it. And, if the rumors were to be believed, Bond was the worst. Indiscriminate and rapacious, Bond got whoever he wanted, and why shouldn't he, when he looked like that. And once he had them, he did what he wanted and let them go, moving on to the next location, the next body, the next mission, not a hair out of place.

Q really shouldn't even be thinking about this. He should be concentrating on the life-saving piece of equipment in front of him, not wondering about who Bond had been with last night, what they looked like, what he had done to them. Not thinking about callused hands and well manicured fingers on sweaty skin, about ice blue eyes in dark stairwells. He kept having to shake himself out of daydreams, visions of bodies and touching and want. _Not professional_ , he told himself. _Focus_.

He was barely surprised when Bond appeared in front of his desk, his mouth quirked up in a half smile.

"Hello, Q," he said.

Q had to force himself not to stare at those lips, not when he'd spent all day imagining where they had been. Something tightened in his stomach, a feeling he couldn't quite place. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly.

"Hello, Bond," Q said. "What can I do for you?" He licked his lips as he said it, totally unconsciously, and then felt like an idiot.

Bond was still smiling at him, a sly expression, like he knew something Q didn't. "Oh, nothing," he said. "I leave tomorrow."

"Yes, for Turkey," said Q. "I've been briefed. Do you have everything you need?"

Bond cocked his head to the side, looking down at Q behind his computer. "I'm sure I do," he said. There was a pause, but Q wasn't sure it was his turn to say anything yet. Sometimes when Bond was in front of him, right there, close enough to touch and yet not touching...sometimes it was worse than being alone. At least when he was alone he could imagine.

"Will you miss me?" Bond said.

"I..." Q felt his eyes go wide, and had no idea what to say.

Bond grinned at him. "Two days," he said. "I'll see you soon." And then he was gone.

+++

It was late by the time Q got ready to head home, really late. That was not unusual. He was often at the office until 10 or 11. He was, after all, in charge of a whole department. It was important work and there was a lot of it and not all of it could be done by 5pm every day. Tonight was especially bad, he realized, when he glanced at the clock on his computer at work and saw that it was 1:47 am. He had a meeting with M at 7, which meant that he didn’t really have time to go home and get a full night’s rest before he had to turn around and come back into the office.

It was, unfortunately, not the first time this had happened. And Q, who was something of a planner, had put another option in place for getting a few hours’ sleep.

With a ragged sigh, he pushed away from his desk, turning off his monitor as he went. From the closet, in the corner of his office, Q grabbed the sleeping bag he kept for nights just like these.  
Next to it was a small duffle with a tooth brush and a change of clothing for the morning.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, Q made his way back to his office. The sleeping bag was laid out on the floor, without so much as a pillow for comfort, but he did not care. At this point, he was fairly certain he could have fallen asleep in his chair. He turned off the lights, stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, and crawled into the sleeping bag.

He was out within minutes.

_There is a chill in the air, a brisk sort of breeze constantly rushing around Q’s body. Even through his thick jumper, he can feel it. Sharp stabs of ice, cutting through his cotton armor. Still, Q smiles. Because even if the wind is cold, this is his favorite sort of weather._

_He is pleased to be sitting on a bench by the sea. Brighton, if he had to guess from the boardwalk in the distance. He is pleased to see that there are big grey clouds over all the sky, not foreboding or dark, just enough to block the sun. He is also pleased to see that he is not alone._

_Next to him on the bench is another sweater-clad man. All wheat-colored hair and light eyes, which are staring out into the ocean. Bond._

_“The sea seems unruly today,” Bond says calmly._

_Q takes his eyes off of Bond, off the dark circles under his eyes, off the sharp cheekbones that shape his face, off the perfect purse of his lips. Instead, Q casts his eyes out to the sea, to look at what Bond sees. Bond is right, the waves are wild, moving and licking back and forth. White caps cover the water, stirring up turbulence, nothing at rest. “A storm must be near,” he says, as if to explain._

_Bond looks away from the water, directly at Q. Their eyes meet, and Q can see nothing but the icy blue expanse of Bond’s irises. They are sparkling, twinkling, even, with an unspoken humor. “Oh, Q,” he says, “The storm is already here.”_

_Q scrunches up his nose in confusion. “This?” he waves his hand at the sky, “This is nothing.”_

_Bond only shakes his head slowly, as if to say Q is missing the point. When he speaks again, it is not about the weather. “Will you miss me?” he asks._

_The question pierces deep into Q’s heart. Like the wind, only deeper. Like a cold stab directly into his very being, into his soul. He shivers. “I already miss you. I always miss you.”_

_“Even when we are near?” Bond presses._

_“Especially then,” Q says._

Around Q, the office was silent and dark. Q hugged the sleeping bag tighter around his frame, though the office was not cold at all.


End file.
